Reflections on a White
Cane Seminar

by Brenda Houlton‑Aikin

From the Editor:
I often remind members of the NFB Public Relations Committee that we are all
engaged in public relations all of the time. The work we do may be positive
or negative, but we can hardly walk down the street without teaching someone
something about being blind.

This is particularly
the case when we come together in conventions. All sorts of people are watching,
listening, and drawing conclusions as we gather to teach each other what we
know and discuss what we have learned about living full and productive lives
as blind people in the community.

In 1991 the NFB
of New Mexico conducted a cane travel seminar at its state convention. Brenda
Houlton-Aikin was a sighted member of the organization who had come to the
convention mostly because of her friendship with Karen (Arellano) Edwards,
who was a 1984 NFB Scholarship winner and who is currently a member of the
New Mexico Commission for the Blind.

Brenda deeply
respected Karen, so she came ready to learn and open to new experience. She
was impressed generally by the convention, but she was particularly affected
by a cane travel seminar conducted by Chris and Doug Boone. Brenda recently
came across the piece she wrote following this experience. She thought that
it might be of interest to Monitor readers. The seminar she took part
in was a far cry from the trust walks many of us have observed with dismay.
Most of those who took part needed to learn all they could about using a white
cane. The people who worked with them were blind, and the instruction was positive
and substantive. This is the way Brenda Houlton-Aikin describes the event:

My experience at
the Cane Travel Seminar during the 1991 New Mexico State NFB Convention surpassed
every expectation I had prior to arriving. I was eagerly anticipating being
included in the seminar taught by Doug and Christine Boone. I pictured myself
being confident and smooth because, after all, I would have the advantage of
having seen the surroundings on my way to the meeting room.

Christine opened
the seminar by explaining that a cane should be chosen depending on the speed
of the person using it‑‑longer for faster walkers, slightly shorter
for those whom move at a slower pace. The point is to allow the length of the
cane to give ample warning time to enable the person using it to stop when
necessary.

Doug helped me select
a cane, and I went back to my seat to prepare for the lesson. I listened with
interest as Christine explained how to hold the cane and why she had chosen
the particular grip she used, holding it somewhat like a golf club. She explained
that it worked better for her than the other commonly used grips. She emphasized
that no style of holding the cane is right or wrong. Whatever works best for
each person is right.

Christine explained
that the cane should move in a low arc from side to side, and she taught us
how to determine if the arc was large enough for walking by practicing in an
open doorway, touching each door jamb as we made the arc. She showed us that
an arc extending an equal distance left and right is important to maintain
a straight course and prevent veering to one side or the other.

I practiced at my
seat, waving my cane in the air at about knee height. "This isn't as easy
as she made it look," I found myself mentally commenting as I watched
the tip of the cane flail about in midair. The length of the cane necessary
for my stride made it heavier than I expected as my wrist strained to maintain
control of the movements and bear the weight. I should add that a cane is not
heavy, but it becomes a highly sensitive extension of the human/environment
interface, and to be useful it needs to be of sufficient length to give advance
warning of changes to expect when you're walking at a comfortable pace. The
balance between controlling the cane and permitting it to move freely and fluidly
is a delicate one to maintain with relatively open‑handed strength. My
confidence began to waver a little.

Christine attempted
to detail the merits of using the compass points of north, south, east, and
west for giving directions since they remain constant while "left, right,
up, over, down," and other identifiers tend to be relational. She also
gave us some interesting information about using other sources of information
to determine the path like the open sounds of larger spaces, the warmth of
the sun, and the direction sunlight or wind is coming from.

Some discussion followed
about the difference between nylon tips and the metal NFB tips at the end of
the cane. A few pointers were offered about taking care of the cane, especially
while getting into and out of a car to prevent damaging the cane by closing
the door on it.

Remarks were added
about where or how to set the cane down so that it is out of the way of others
without being too far out of reach when it is needed again. The students were
paired up with blind volunteer instructors. Veronica Smith said, "I'll
take Brenda."

Christine gave a
gentle warning to those of us who were sighted and would be wearing sleepshades.
"The hour you spend in this hands‑on seminar using sleepshades and
a cane may be a frightening experience and will not be a true reflection of
how it feels to be blind. Don't expect too much from this brief encounter in
that respect."

I was slightly perplexed
at this cautious warning and began to suspect that I might not be able to fathom
the many components of vision impairment or the impact it would have on a person's
life. It didn't even occur to me that the exercise I was about to embark on
would be sufficiently mind‑boggling and so fast‑paced as to require
my entire capacity to process the information. I wasn't yet aware that I could
not allow confusion or panic to thwart my concentration and my openness or
receptiveness to the remarkable opportunity to learn about the cane and its
use. I think that was the reason behind Christine's kind admonition. I was
still so excited and, now, slightly apprehensive since my understanding of
my skills and my preconceived notions were being tested.

Doug provided a set
of sleepshades, and Veronica and I attempted to round each other up. Not surprisingly,
she found me first. Initially I put the sleepshades on, felt around with my
cane, and lifted the sleepshades. "This will be easier if I get into a
clear area before I begin," I reasoned.

Veronica brought
my thoughts back to the reality of the task at hand when she asked, "Are
we ready?"

I gulped, pulling
down the sleepshades slowly, adjusting them carefully, and replied, "I
guess so." I was a little disoriented at first and ran back through my
early physiology lessons to confirm that equilibrium was associated with the
ears, not the eyes, but I quickly adjusted well enough to my new state.

Feeling off balance
and disoriented had been one of my primary concerns, but anticipating Veronica's
voice giving instructions and then tuning in to the feedback the cane was giving
me distilled my concentration to the point that I seemed to forget my anxiety.

We found our way
out of the door; down two steps; turned west; and made our way through the
crowd of other students, instructors, onlookers, bystanders, and passersby.

"Gee," I
thought, "just how many people showed up for this event?" My senses
were definitely working overtime, and I shared my second discovery with Veronica.
"I think sighted people believe that, when people lose their sight, they
lose all of their perception." This seems to conflict with the concept
that a person's other senses become more acute when vision declines, but it
may actually clear up the apparent mystery of the supposed improvement of the
other senses. The sighted population readily uses the information gained visually
and ignores, disregards, or dismisses all the other sources of information
that are present once the initial piece of visual data is processed by the
brain. The general devastation regarding the loss indicates a heavy reliance
on vision as the primary or even single source of information, and most people
would not want to contemplate coping without it. But the other sources are
there, and we do take the information in. It's only when the primary source
of information is reduced that the other sources become more valuable and the
skills capitalizing on them are honed.

I realized I was caught
up in my thoughts. I was analyzing way too much, and the task at hand demanded
my full attention since I was receiving a lot of information and all of it
was coming so fast I couldn't process or interpret it in the time it took to
move down the corridor. I was truly astounded and amazed to feel how every
tap of the cane resonated with such clarity. Not only could I hear the tap,
but I could feel it as well. It gave such incredible clues to where we were
and the general environment around us.

Veronica began offering
additional instructions. "The cane should arc left to right, and when
it's on the right, your left foot should be extended. When it's on the left,
your right foot should be extended. Kind of imagine you are kicking it back
and forth in front of you kind of like a can on a string."

"Oh no, this
could be my undoing," I groaned, recalling my comical reputation for lack
of grace. By this time we were almost to the elevator, and I couldn't give
up now. I can hardly follow left, right, left without one foot being disastrously
attracted to the other while using my vision. In any group activity where hands
and feet are expected to follow instructions like "left foot up, right
arm down," I'm the one in the crowd who appears to be following the beat
of a very different drum.

"Well, just
keep up and try to work on it," I coached myself. I suggested that we
make our way down to the parking lot and drop off my rather large purse. I
described where my truck was on the west side of the building, about three
cars down from the near end of the lot.

Veronica was all
for it. We encountered every pillar in the vicinity but made it there and back
with relative ease. I began to realize that, in my eagerness and concentration
on left and right, I had completely forgotten to worry about the claustrophobia
I thought would also concern me.

Veronica recommended
we continue exploring the layout of the building. We went south, then west,
then south, then east, then south, or was it north? "Could we be in another
county by now?" I mused to myself. I found Veronica's bearings entirely
more dependable than my own. We found ourselves in a strange corridor, split
in half with a ramp on the left and stairs on the right. The temptation to
raise my sleepshades was too great to resist, so I peeked around and found
little or no assistance visually. The hallway appeared to go nowhere in both
directions, and the ramp and stairs seemed to have no purpose.

Veronica and I decided
this was an acceptable halfway point in our excursion and now was a good time
to make our way back. How we returned or, for that matter, from where, I haven't
a clue. I've even been back to this same hotel and have never been able to
locate where we had been.

Veronica mentioned
that I might stay on course a little better using a technique called shorelining,
in which I tapped the cane against the wall consistently as I walked beside
it. I'm certain this helpful pointer was prompted by the fact that Veronica
was at the mercy of my elbows and cane as we walked side by side.

We found the main
entry of the building and attempted to pass the fountain and flora that we
had been warned of by the distinct aroma of chlorine we had detected yards
before we could hear the trickle of water. The pool and planters didn't have
a raised edge or border of any kind, so ending up in them was a precarious
possibility.

As we made our final
approach down the hall back to the meeting room, Veronica was describing the
light, airy, open spaces. She asked if I could feel the warmth of the sun and
whether I recognized where we were. I did for that brief moment, but, as we
passed another warm, open spot, I realized that I didn't remember more than
one window area. So much for my powers of visual observation that I had thought
would be so helpful.

Later I found I had
seen the numerous windows in the area without making a point to commit them
to memory as separate and individual objects, each with its own distinct impact
on the environment.

As we entered the
meeting room, I felt both exhilarated and exhausted. As with any new exercise,
this one had drained my energy both mentally and physically. We concluded the
seminar with a discussion of our experiences from both the students' and instructors'
perspectives. I felt I had done fairly well for my first time out, and on a
scale of one to ten, one being "never again" and ten being "Lets
go!" I would say this was easily a nine. I needed time to sort out all
I had learned and get my energy back, but I felt undeniably changed and triumphant.

When I attempted
to describe my experience to my family and friends, I found they were mainly
concerned with the sleepshades and the fear of claustrophobia just as I had
been. I discovered that for me the sleepshades had blocked out a great deal
of unnecessary information that flows to the brain visually. For someone with
failing eyesight or only a bit of residual vision, the sleepshades would block
out a lot of misinformation that makes walking more difficult or even dangerous
and promote using the cane more fully.

Correct information
can mean the difference between stepping down off one level safely and a misstep
that ends with a twisted or broken ankle. The sleepshades seemed to make it
easier for me to tune in to the messages from other sources: the cane, sounds,
air flow, aromas, textures, gradual inclines or descents, temperature, and
many others. The sleepshades disrupted my normal habit of seeking automatic
visual confirmation and dismissing the other information as unnecessary.

I've gained more sensitivity
and appreciation for all the information available and now try continually
to tune in to my world more each day. More important, I believe I've gained
more than exposure to a technique; I've gained insight into the habits that
play a role in attitudes toward people.

You can create a
gift annuity by transferring money or property to the National Federation of
the Blind. In turn, the NFB contracts to pay you income for life or your spouse
or loved ones after your death. How much you and your heirs receive as income
depends on the amount of the gift and your age when payments begin. You will
receive a tax deduction for the full amount of your contribution, less the
value of the income the NFB pays to you or your heirs.

You would be wise
to consult an attorney or accountant when making such arrangements so that
he or she can assist you to calculate current IRS regulations and the earning
potential of your funds. The following example illustrates how a charitable
gift annuity can work to your advantage.

Mary Jones, age sixty-five
decides to set up a charitable gift annuity by transferring $10,000 to the
NFB. In return the NFB agrees to pay Mary a lifetime annuity of $750 per year,
of which $299 is tax-free. Mary is also allowed to claim a tax deduction of
$4,044 in the year the NFB receives the $10,000 contribution.